The Flight of the Roc
by Anselm053
Summary: What should be a relaxing vacation for the Question back home in Hub City turns into something else entirely as he gets drawn into an oldschool mystery. QuestionHuntress, etc.
1. Sunday

The Flight of the Roc  
Stephen Anselm

Summary: What should be a relaxing vacation for the Question back home in Hub City turns into something else entirely as he gets drawn into an old-school mystery. Question/Huntress, etc.

Disclaimer: standard disavowal of ownership of all nonoriginal material, especially that of DC.

Historian's note: JLU continuity, but borrows history from Q in print; early season 5

Note: This story is best read with a heavy ale like La Fin du Monde, having just watched the 1941 Bogart version of The Maltese Falcon. (Readers under the age of twenty-one should substitute triple-thick strawberry milkshakes, which – to be honest – are just as good.) And read my profile for the Plan -- I'm making progress, honestly! In some ways this is a reply to coldqueen's Tempest, but the sense in which it's a response will probably be obscure.

For Kerianne, friend and coauthor, who long ago wanted something with chapters

* * *

**Sunday**

There was a knock on the door, which he did not hear.

He had comfortably settled himself into his reading chair, with the recent book by Tennessee law professor and blogger Glenn Reynolds open in front of him. According to the subtitle, An Army of Davids was about how markets and new technology were giving the common man the power to win against 'Big Media, Big Government, and Other Goliaths'. The reviews had been excellent, and he'd been looking forward to it for months but never seemed to find the time.

Now he finally had the chance. Under the revised League schedule with mandatory downtime, he was free for two weeks from his data management duties, and Helena-- well. Helena was otherwise occupied.

So he'd come home. Vic had spent the morning confirming that there was nothing in Hub City that needed his attention for a few days. As usual, he'd set the computer to beep if certain keywords or patterns were detected on the newswire or the police comm bands, and he'd verified that the League override was working; he didn't have to worry he'd miss anything. For once it looked like he could actually get some reading done.

He'd set out some juice and some cookies -- butterscotch oatmeal that sweet Mrs. Astor down the hall had dropped off for him -- and the gentle blare of late '30s jazz flowed from his record player. Everything was perfect.

The knock, which he continued not to hear, repeated itself. Twice as long this time, and louder.

_At least I turned off the doorbell. Now I only have to refuse to hear a knock._

With grim determination, he took a drink from his tall glass and patiently began to read through the acknowledgments. He recognized several of the names listed, and knew two casually.

Knock. Knock knock knock.

_I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul._

_There is no one at my door, and I am going to read my book._

He looked at the ceiling and counted to ten, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

There was a blessed silence, which made sense, because there was no one knocking. He thought about daring to skim a few more words, but counted again to be safe.

More happy silence.

.. knock.

_Wonderful. Master of my fate indeed._

He sighed and rose. He briefly scanned the room to make sure there was nothing incriminating in view. Vic Sage might live here, but the Question didn't.

Annoyed, he yanked the deadbolts, threw the chainlock aside, and opened the door.

Later he'd remember her eyes most of all. Intelligent, but not with the piercing predatory sharpness he'd grown used to recently; instead they were soft and curious, and shy, which Helena never was. Even through her somewhat bookish glasses, they were an appealing light green. Not the bright green that made you suspect coloured contacts but the milder green-brown of nature.

She was pretty, though maybe not beautiful. Early thirties, short and quite slight, in a grey woolen sweater and matching dark grey kilted skirt. Long, curly mousy-brown hair fell down in ringlets to her shoulders and more than a few stray strands had escaped over her face. The fairness and the freckles said Irish; the bone structure said Polish, or possibly Ukrainian. She had the looks of someone who had been only mildly attractive when young but to whom age had been kind.

_Unlike myself, who started ugly and grows ever worse. I should have gone into radio._

_Strangers don't come to bother you when you're in radio._

"Mr. Victor Sage? From channel 41?"

"I'm Sage. Somehow you've found me, Ms--"

"Moldowan. Erin Moldowan. And Miss is fine."

"As you prefer." He was about to order her to go away in memorably pithy fashion with six choice words when his mind called up a certain kindly and grey-eyed face from his childhood, a face which proceeded to glare disappointedly at him.

_Fine, Sister. I'll be nice._

"Miss Moldowan, I've just started what should be a very good book. I'd like to get back to it. So I'd appreciate it if you could tell me whatever it is you've tracked me down to say, and then be on your way."

Despite the obvious irritation in his tone she showed no hesitation.

"My best friend was murdered six days ago. No one knows why. And I think you can find out."

He studied her for a few moments.

"Come in," he said.

He gestured at his couch. "Sit down. Do you want something to drink? Or an oatmeal cookie?" He took one for himself. "They're good. I didn't make them, if you're worried."

"No, thank you." Having made it past the moat, she clearly wanted to seize the opportunity before the lord of the castle changed his mind.

"First things first. How'd you get this address?" he asked.

It wasn't impossible to find by any means; there's a limit to how secretive it's worth being with your True Name when you've been on television and half the people in your building recognize you. Nevertheless it would still take some work for a civilian, as he'd removed himself from most public directories.

She seemed startled by his bluntness, but then nodded slowly, as if deciding she should have predicted it. "The station managers wouldn't tell me anything, but I hung around and asked one of the secretaries if you had any close friends. She suggested Professor Rodor, so I went to talk to him.."

_I'm going to kill him. I wonder if Helena will wait for me while I'm in prison?_

"I see," he said.

_Probably not. I make it two days before she finds someone else. _

_Less if I'm not arrested on a school night._

".. and he listened to my story. Then he gave me directions here and told me to say the following to you, exactly." Her brow knitted in concentration as she tried to recall the words. "'Hey, Vic, you know that solid I owe you? I'm calling it in. Hear the young lady out. Yours, Aristotle.'"

"Shouldn't that be the other way around?" she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head. "No, you heard correctly. We have an.. interesting.. friendship."

The problem with having friends, good ones anyway, is that eventually the other's promises on your behalf bind you; you can yell at them after the fact all you like, but it doesn't change your obligations.

"You could have left a message at the station. They forward them. And my email works fine."

"I thought I could be more persuasive in person. And the professor said--"

Vic could feel the headache coming on, and rubbed his temples with his hand. "Let me guess. He said that I was a people person, and you shouldn't believe anyone who said otherwise, and he told you to drop by unannounced because I like surprises."

_Some friend. _

_You're mine, Rodor. Tenure only lasts as long as you live._

"Well, if he sent you then I'll listen," he said, "but I'm not sure how I can help. I'm not a private detective."

"I know. But a detective wouldn't be much use to me. You see," she admitted, "I doubt I can afford to pay you."

Of course not.

He thought that it might be nice to say 'Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses' occasionally, and wondered, not for the first time, if he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere when he'd found himself in journalism. True, he didn't need the money, but it was the principle of the thing.

"So I thought that maybe you could investigate and then write a story."

"If you've gone to this much trouble, you must already know that I'm part-time at best these days," he said.

After he'd accepted the League's offer to handle their data, he realized quickly that it was going to be a full-time task. So Victor Sage, salaried investigative journalist-crusader, would have to become Victor Sage, underemployed freelancer. Meanwhile the Question would be funded directly by the League, with access to datamining tech far beyond anything he'd had before, and the processing power of a medium-size nation at his disposal. It was an excellent trade.

He'd managed to leave the impression at the station that he was resigning to work on a book, some important hush-hush project, for which he'd received a respectable advance. Now he only had to submit a few stories a year, to maintain the illusion of still being in the game, and the new, prettier talking heads would take his work and read it from teleprompters.

Oh, well. He'd never much cared for the performance side of the job anyway. He couldn't stand to watch himself on film. And a byline's still a byline.

_Although if I'm spending so many of my off-hours from the Watchtower in Gotham and not in the Hub, maybe it's time to make my resignation more permanent._

_Of course that might not be a problem any more._

* * *

Helena had a reputation at the school for being unreliable. She knew she'd earned it, though it wasn't really her fault. That's just what happens when you suddenly call in sick again to let a recently-separated shoulder heal, and you're always going to get in trouble when you replace lectures by independent study periods so you can catch a much-needed nap in the teachers' lounge.

Plus she was running out of imaginary relatives to kill off.

As a consequence, she found herself regularly assigned all sorts of thankless tasks to make up for the ones she neglected. This time it was taking a group of the kids camping up to Wellwood Lake.

"A week of nature hikes, campfire songs, and girlish gossip. And I blame you," she had told Vic the day before.

"Me? What'd I do?"

"I'm still in the doghouse from skipping work for three days to hunt you down, remember? When I saw the look in the principal's eye I didn't bother putting up a fight. They've been good about cutting me a lot of slack, but I'm definitely on the ropes lately."

She shook her head. "And then, on my last night as a free woman before this death march, you bail on me." Swatting mosquitoes and dealing with tweenage angst weren't high on her list.

"Something came up," he insisted. "I told you that already."

"Vic, I'm a pro too, and unlike you I'm still doing a lot of patrol work. I know how it goes. And yet somehow I manage to make time for you, which you don't seem very good at.."

She looked at him, and her tone was suddenly all-too-casual. "So this 'something' that came up. Was it more important than me?"

He recognized the danger immediately, and knew he had to think carefully before replying.

Apparently he wasn't careful enough. He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, but one ill-chosen word led to a sharper one in reply, and then her voice got hot and loud, and his got cold and edgy, and certain things were said it wasn't easy to take back. From there the conversation went downhill rapidly. Finally she threw her hands up in disgust and stormed away.

After a few steps, she stopped. She stood with arms crossed for a while with her back to him, breathing heavily, and then returned.

"I shouldn't have to say this, but I will, because you're you. We're having a fight, Vic. One of those maybe-we-should-take-a-break fights. However, this is not -- not, d'you hear me? -- an excuse for you to go do something suicidal while I'm gone."

"I was hoping," she continued, "that I could console myself in the forest with unrated daydreams involving you and me and the best the dessert aisle has to offer. Now?"

She blew air out through her teeth. "Now I'm going to be mad at you instead. Not nearly as much fun. But I expect you to be here and unhurt when I get back."

She grabbed him, pulled him toward her, and kissed him possessively, deep and fierce and angry.

"See you in a week," she said, and stomped off again.

* * *

He put those thoughts away for future consideration, and focused on his guest.

"Only part-time," he repeated. "And isn't this a matter for the police?"

She frowned. "The police are part of the problem."

"Look. Begin at the beginning, and we'll see."

"Okay," she said, and took a deep breath. "I work for Basilisk Analysis."

"With the office on Second and William?" They were a middle-sized physical chemistry group, who handled a lot of forensic analysis for the police. He'd had an argument with Green Arrow the month before about the benefits of outsourcing such things to private industry – where Vic took the pro-market position, as usual -- and even though Queen hadn't admitted out loud that he was right in the end, he was sure from the thoughtful look that he'd scored enough points to give the other a few anxious moments before bedtime.

_Serves him right._

She nodded. "That's us. About half police work these days, maybe half quality control checks for various local companies; it's that stuff that brings in the profits. Especially the medical work, they've got money to burn. The rest is miscellaneous work for universities and authentication for private auctions, that sort of thing."

"Makes sense. So are you a chemist or a physicist?"

"Neither. I'm a coder."

"Ah."

Erin smiled ruefully. "I bet you were expecting to hear something more practical? Usually everyone takes me for a chemist. I think it's the frames," she said, and adjusted her glasses.

"I try not to expect things. It makes it too easy to miss the truth when it's right in front of you."

"My family says I'm crazy to work for Basilisk.. they can't pay me market rates. I could always go program for some startup and earn several times what I make, and sometimes I consider it, but I really enjoy the work, especially the criminal stuff."

She tucked some loose hair behind her ear absently. "I know I'd be terrible at police work, but I'm very good at computers, and I like the variety of projects I get to work on. So it seems to me I should use what talents I've been given for the benefit of the cause, even if the work will never get me profiled on the evening news like our more outgoing members.."

He tilted his head in wry acknowledgment, and thought of an over-the-top Flash special he'd seen advertised recently by a reporter with an obvious major crush.

_Linda really needs to tone it down. Pity I can't tell her the whole story. Still, maybe there's something I could do.. I should ask Hel-- _

_On second thought, scratch that._

"After all," she explained, "someone has to keep everything in order. It might as well be someone who's good at it."

That he understood completely. "I don't think you're crazy. And I'm something of an expert on the matter."

"They warned me you could be a little--"

"Unhinged? Manic? Wound too tightly?"

"I was going to say unconventional. I can't see how they'd come up with the others," she said.

"Sarcasm that dry doesn't become you. On with the story."

"Basilisk only has a few dozen scientists, and we're divided into different teams.."

Vic rolled his eyes at the corporate-speak, and waved at her to continue.

".. some specializing just in one subject, like DNA analysis, and some teams being more general. I'm in one of the general ones, team C.. we're expected to become experts in all sorts of crazy stuff. We handle a lot of the more complicated police cases, where they give us the victim's cousin's shoe and expect us to come up with a clue to lead them to the robber, based on the fact that this shoe floats differently in gravy than it does in soup, or whatever. You get the idea."

He did. They called it the CSI effect: ever since the bloody show came on, juries – and increasingly the authorities themselves – had unrealistic expectations of what science could do, and figured that whatever absurd idea they dreamed up could be implemented and would find the culprit in about forty-two minutes, not counting snack breaks. There were already lots of cases where the evidence was overwhelming, so massive it was clear there was no need for expensive and time-consuming DNA testing, but the jury acquitted on account of its absence..

_No surprise there. People are stupid. And stupider in groups._

"We do pretty well, all things considered. The team's got four of us: me; my boss Randy de Souza, a materials physics guy – or he was before he moved into management, anyway; and Spence Geisler, he does genetics; and Angela Morton, the biochemist."

She looked down. "There _were_ four of us."

Vic let the silence stand for a while and sipped his juice. "What happened, Miss Moldowan?" he finally asked, gently.

"I don't know!" she insisted. "I don't know what happened. What I do know is this: last Monday morning, Randy came into the office early, about seven-thirty, to finish some paperwork. And he found Angie in the lab."

"She'd been shot," she said flatly. "One bullet, straight through the heart."

All sorts of questions came to mind: precise location, calibre, and so on, but he could look that up from the police report later. Come to think of it..

"What do the police say? This is their bailiwick, after all."

"They don't tell me anything. The most I can get out of them is that it was probably a robbery gone wrong."

"It's been known to happen. Was anything missing?"

"Nothing, as far as I know, and they had us do a full inventory on Monday afternoon."

"Simplest explanation's usually the right one," Vic said. "Could be a low-level drug dealer looking to steal a few electronic balances, meets up with your friend unexpectedly, and the rest-- it's an old story. Who's in charge of the investigation?"

"Cresswell. Nils Cresswell."

Vic winced.

To put it simply, Cresswell had – what was the phrase? -- delusions of adequacy. Admittedly, he seemed to wind up on the right side most of the time, but Vic was convinced that was solely because of an entirely undeserved string of good luck, and not due to any skill on his part. Of course it'd be better for his theory if Cresswell failed more often..

"He's not entirely incompetent. Why are you so convinced that they can't handle it?"

"Because they won't listen to me. I spoke to Angie on the phone on Saturday evening, so she was alive then, and there's no way she would have come in on a typical Sunday, and definitely not that early on a Monday morning. Something more must've been going on."

Vic set down his glass. "How can you be so sure?"

"You have to understand, Mr. Sage," she said softly, folding her hands, and she reddened a little. "I don't have many friends. I'm not very social, and tend to keep to myself. But Angie was different-- you just couldn't help but love her. Everyone did. Most of the guys wound up half in love with her, but somehow she could turn them down and stay friends-- even after getting rejected, they were still fans. She was so open, so full of life. And she didn't care that I was a geek.. she was so sure of herself, so confident, she honestly didn't care what anyone else thought."

"The first day that I started at Basilisk, she came over, introduced herself to me, and invited me over to her place for a welcome dinner. She just got it into her head that since we were working together, we should be great friends.. and so we were."

"She got me out into the world, to concerts and plays and all sorts of things I'd never have done on my own.. and she introduced me to so many people I'd never have met otherwise. I owe her a lot.. I didn't know half of what I was missing."

"I know it sounds tired, but it's true: Angie always worked hard, and played hard. And she loved her weekends. She checked out every Friday at exactly five o'clock. For the three years we worked together, I only knew her to come in on a weekend twice, and both times we were swamped with major cases.. and if anything, lately we've been slower than normal."

"Cresswell says that there were lots of reasons she could've come in.. but I don't believe it. It's simple, but it's wrong. The story doesn't make sense. There's something more. He wants to write Angie's death off and move on, but I can't let that happen."

Erin looked at him, her eyes clear and serious. "She was my friend, and I don't have many. I need to know who killed her, and I need for him to meet justice."

Vic considered. He hadn't officially scheduled much for this week, but there were things he'd wanted to do: visit Rodor, although now that involved violence; see a certain woman in a habit, and give her a tacky Guadalupe snowglobe he'd picked up in Mexico awhile back on League business; maybe drop by his favourite pub, the Oak and Ash, some evening where he could enjoy a quiet pint and make it through the paper without being interrupted; and, of course, get some reading done.

"Please," she said, and despite her careful control, he could sense the desperate need beneath, and the tears she was too proud to shed.

He should really say n--

_Damn._

He sighed.

"Fine," he said at last. And because the phrase was traditional.. "I'll take the case."

"I can't promise anything. You have to understand that Cresswell's probably right.. most murders are merely ugly, with dull and dreary solutions. I'm not the police, and I'm not a detective, but I'll see what I can find out – but only if you're willing to believe me if I say that there's nothing more to discover."

She agreed solemnly, to his eyes hiding her eager relief very poorly. His headache threatened to become a full-blown migraine.

Only one thing left to clear up..

"Miss Moldowan, we need to get something clear at the outset. You may want it already. Who knows? Even I might come to think it's a good idea later, in a weak moment; I'm only human."

_Whatever they may say._

"But there are lines I won't let myself cross. Lines I can't let myself cross. And I'm afraid one thing can never happen between the two of us, no matter how tempted we both may be, no matter how much each of us may long for it."

Her eyes widened at that. "What?"

"I never share my byline."

She laughed, and her face opened up with her first real smile since she'd walked through his door.

It was refreshingly simple. Honest and unclouded and innocent.

And perhaps she was beautiful after all.

(to be continued)


	2. Monday 1

**(A/N: See profile)**

**Monday - 1**

"Well, well, what do what we have here?" said Cresswell, setting down his pen and looking up from the piles of paper burying his desk, amused. "If it isn't Vic Sage, come to trouble honest cops with his craziness."

Even early on a Monday morning, the second floor of Hub City's central police station was full, although lively would be a stretch. The large curved skylights, remnants of the station's previous life as a train terminal, gave the open room a Grand Central Station feel. Some officers were trading stories from the weekend, but mostly they sat at their cubicle-desks trying to see how much of what they didn't get to last week could now be happily forgotten. The coffee hadn't had its time to work yet: everyone was moving slowly and speaking quietly, trying to pretend the work day hadn't really started.

Well, almost everyone. The tall man with short sandy-blond hair he'd come to see was an exception. Cresswell had always been one of those ever-energetic morning people, which was just another entry in the long list of reasons he was annoying.

"That was my plan," Vic replied. "They sent me to you instead."

Cresswell snorted and pushed several folders from a nearby chair onto the floor. "Take a seat, Sage. Been a while since you dropped by. Haven't seen you on the box much either. How's semiretirement treating you?"

"I've been keeping busy," Vic said, which was true enough. "I've got less disposable income now but a lot more freedom," which could be either true or false, depending. "All in all, it's been worth it. But I'm not here to talk about my work: I'm actually here to talk about yours."

"If that's your way of hinting you want me to look into something, I'll pass. I don't have time for one of your so-called cases. Let's say-- I dunno, say some newsstand changes its magazine display and you think it's suspicious. You know what? Even if you're right, and there's some dark reason for it that takes a wall full of flowcharts to explain-- who cares? I mean, really, who cares? Not me on a Monday. Trust me on this."

Vic sighed. "Magazine arrangements? Seriously?"

Cresswell shrugged. "So I can't think enough like you to fake it. This is a problem for me how?"

_Ouch._

"Stick to good, old-fashioned crime reporting," he continued. "You were pretty good back in the day."

"Always nice to meet a fan. But I think you're about to regret saying that," Vic said.

"I should've known better. See if I ever compliment you again."

"I'm interested in the Morton case."

"Morton. Morton," Cresswell repeated, and surveyed the chaos on the desk unhappily. "The chemist? Gunshot victim?"

"That's the one."

Cresswell turned in his chair and started searching for the casefile, which he feared was a few layers down. "Pretty straightforward, I thought, if depressing. The randoms always are. How'd you hear about it?"

"Friend of the victim."

"Wild guess: the Moldowan girl? She's been making noises."

"I understand you're thinking robbery gone wrong? Drug-related?"

"Yeah," he said, "that's the bes-- ah! Here it is." He opened the recovered folder and flipped through his notes. Vic noted, and not for the first time, that for such a messy guy Cresswell had excellent handwriting. "Yeah, looks like it. We didn't tell the girl, but there have been a couple of other equipment thefts 'round town lately, all from labs. Look a lot like this one. The other ones were all cold, though-- this was the first hot burglary, and after the shooting the killers got spooked and ran before taking anything. I think Morton was just very, very unlucky. Poor woman."

"Any leads?"

"Some forensics on the other thefts, but to tell the truth it's been pretty low priority up till now. Now that they've killed somebody, that's changed, and the bosses have assigned me some more badges from narcotics. Bullet didn't show any matches, natch. But you know the score: between you, me, and the wall, the only way we're going to break this case is if we either find the stolen toys by chance or one of the perps gives up the killer in a plea agreement. Not great news in the short term, but I'd say fifty-fifty in the next year."

He held up his hand as Vic moved to speak. "And before you start the rant, Sage, I know: vote yes on 168 and end the drug war. Wouldn't have changed anything this time, these guys are making more than enough to buy their own damn junk. They're cheap, lazy, evil cowards, and whatever you say, the dust sure as hell isn't making them any nicer."

"That I'm willing to believe. Moldowan seems pretty convinced that Morton shouldn't have been there in the first place, though."

"Oh, come on. You know better than that."

Vic did. Everyone does one thing a week they haven't done in a while, but since it's almost never important they forget how unusual it would look to an outsider after the fact.

"Still," he replied, "I promised I'd check into it. Any objections to me doing a little digging? The drug angle's yours."

"Think we're chasing up the wrong tree?"

"Can't say. Odds are you're right, but there's something a little off to me. Hard to put my finger on it."

"Well, as long as you don't interfere with anything, feel free. Just let me know beforehand if you find anything important. I'd prefer not to see my case solved on the eleven o'clock."

"Done."

"Too bad I can't let you look at the casefile. But I'm sure you'll manage somehow," Cresswell said dryly.

Indeed he would. Vic's life had become much easier when the department went digital. "Hopefully. I'll talk to the coworkers myself. Any ideas?"

The detective thought for a while. "If you're figuring somebody from the office for this.. I'd check out Geisler some more. That guy rubs me the wrong way, though so far he's clean. Being a jerk doesn't make you a killer, of course."

"I will, then." As Vic stood, he looked at the picture hanging from the desk's backboard, the one oasis of order in the maelstrom. Despite the disorganization, nothing had been allowed to block the view.

"How's the wife, by the way? And the kid?"

Cresswell looked at the photograph, showing his wife and son, and smiled.

"She's doing fine. Karen worries about her mom's health a bit these days, but that's natural, I guess. And Sam's great. Thirteen now, can you believe it? And he's taking names in Bantam, just like his old man." He shook his head, his pride obvious. "Best two-way defenceman in the league, and the playoffs are coming up. Don't want to jinx him so let's just say I'm liking our chances."

"You know, Vic," Cresswell added after a moment, "Karen asks after you from time to time. Wonders if you're ever planning on settling down. Anything I should tell her?"

"You can tell her--" he began, and then wasn't sure how to finish. The room, which had been gradually growing louder as the caffeine had its effect, suddenly seemed very quiet. Eventually: "-- that I'm not sure. But five years ago I never thought about it." He glanced again at the boy's goofy grin, too wide by half, and his mother's warm brown eyes.

"Now sometimes I do. Give her my best."

Cresswell nodded as they shook hands. "Don't be a stranger. Go ask your questions, Sage."

"I always do."

* * *

Inspector Nils Cresswell watched Sage walk away. He remembered the first time they'd met on a case, all those years ago, back when Vic had been starting to get some notice as a gadfly journalist with an independent streak. By the time Vic was done, what he'd thought was just a simple hit and run ultimately brought down two corrupt councillors involved in an eminent domain land-grab. Even back then, when he was in the zone, there was simply no stopping him.

At last he looked again to the Morton folder, and took out his pen, and with a firm straight line calmly crossed out the "Probable 213" notation on the cover.

"088," he wrote beneath it. "Continuing."


End file.
